Beholder
The Iron Spikes This interior of The Iron Spikes is typical of most bars, but with a distinctly Demarian flavor. The tables are low, supported by iron spikes at each corner, and iron gray pillows scattered around them for patrons. The bar is in the rear, flanked on both sides by curtained doors which lead to the back. The bar itself is made of black marble, with stools supported by iron stands which narrow at the top. The lighting is sufficient to counter-balance the rather dark decor, supplied by tall lamps supported by iron poles and lamps hanging over each table supported by iron chains. Behind the bar is a large mirror, very conspicuously left un-obstructed to leave a clear view from the barstools. Soft Demarian music plays from overhead speakers. "Good evening, Lord and Lady." Shiningcoat adds as she walks by Darkmuzzle and Firebrand's table, speaking softly so as not to be too much of a distraction. She accompanies the greeting with a brief dip of her muzzle. The velveted fur across her muzzle drawn smooth, Firebrand returns the polite nod with no small bit of enthusiasm. "Ah, Lady Shiningcoat. You are looking well," she says smoothly, accepting a glass as it is offered by one of the serving girls. Accompanied by an underclasser who is burdened by a nearly full-length mirror and another carting a sketch pad and charcoal sticks in a leather sack, Stumppaw Sandwalker enters the tavern with all the subtlety of a rampaging, stampeding herd of rabid padraki desert bumblers. He gestures to a particular pile of pillows in a well-lit corner and proclaims: "An adequate site for portraiture, I should think." Off he goes, followed by the artist and the mirror-wielder. Darkmuzzle is distracted from his conversation with Firebrand by both Shiningcoat and Stumppaw, his ears dancing back and forth as he covers any annoyance with a draught from his wine, but his tail still lashes, once. "Ah. Lady Shiningcoat. It is, in some aspects. How fares your betrothed?" Though one of hear ears tilts back towards Stumppaw, Shiningcoat keeps her attention on the two nobles before her. "He is well." She answers with a simple nod, "His business is well too... perhaps too well. I have seen little of him the past week. I may have to steal him away sometime soon. I crave the attention far too much." As Stumppaw plops down among the pillows with a huffing grunt and a flare of whiskers, the mirror-wielder does some huffing of her own as she eases her burden's weight onto the floor. The sketch artist moves around behind Stumppaw and his pile of pillows so that he can observe the noble's reflection in the mirror - from this he will work without making too much extended and inappropriate eye contact with the noble's true person. The twinned Stumppaw glances toward the other nobles. He gnashes his fangs, then returns his gaze to the mirror, regarding the artist. "Begin." "And what is his business?" Firebrand's attention is easily, perhaps eagerly pulled from her conversation with the gentleman. "It seems in our discussion of his merits last evening, I somehow failed to ask. An oversight which I assure you has no bearing on my interest." Darkmuzzle holds out his flagon for the proffered refilling, eyeing the already-tested bottle warily still, his attention flicking between the two noblewomen and the elder male. A faint smile appears on his muzzle once again, lift of his chin to the Sandwalker Elder. "A talented portraitist you have found, Lord Sandwalker?" Shiningcoat tilts her gaze over to Firebrand, lowering her voice so her conversation doesn't interfere with Darkmuzzle's. "He owns, operates, and governs the Shinara station." The noble girl replies proudly, nodding her head a little. Stumppaw lifts his snout an inch or so, flexing his whiskers and twitching his ears. The shadow and light play off his fur and the gleam of his eyes. "Talented enough, I am told," Stumppaw grumbles. The sketch artist plucks a charcoal stick from the leather sack slung over his shoulder, flips open the pad and begins to draw on a fresh page. Firebrand sits forward, her gaze gaining intensity. "Is that so? Then I should look eagerly forward to meeting your young man. For surely he must have a solid head for business even if..." she allows the thought to trail off, a light chuckle rising before awkward pause can take hold. "Tell me his name." Darkmuzzle flashes a short look to Firebrand, then a curious one to Shiningcoat, taking a few heartbeats to examine the female, eyes narrowed some above his mug. Lowered, he wipes his torn snout with the back of a paw, then casually that is blotted upon some pillows, leaving faint trails of red on they grey. "Excellent. I should wish to find one myself, in time. If things progress as planned, we should have some image ready to receive the necessary accolades over time." "Darktail Farstalker." Shiningcoat says simply. She looks away from Firebrand, turning to Stumppaw for a brief moment, and then looks back. The girl rubs one of her eyes briefly. "Indeed," the elder Sandwalker replies. The artist continues to sketch in broad strokes and arcs, giving general definition to his creative image, occasionally glancing to the mirror for further reference. The mirror-wielder stoically bolsters the reflective object to keep it from toppling. Firebrand sits back at the answer, her gaze falling away from the bar's owner back to the rosey depths of her glass. "I shall remember it," she says just as simply, then drinks deeply. Shiningcoat nods in ackowledgement, then lapses into silence. After a few moments, she says, "If you'll excuse me, Lady, I just wanted to make sure all was well here. Seeing that it is, I will retire for the night. Farewell." Darkmuzzle gives little notice at this point to Shiningcoat, his attention drawn back to Firebrand. "Another off-world business..." he rumbles, some hint of a sharp tease in his tones as his tail flicks dismissively. The artist begins more focused and refined work, sketching diligently with the charcoal stick - nubbing it at an angle. He stops, glances from the sketch on the pad to the reflection in the mirror. His whiskers flatten against his snout and his eyes narrow. He goes back to work, etching shadows onto stark paper. "Have a pleasant evening," Firebrand says in a rather flat tone, her attention sharply captured by the joke's well-placed edge. "I would remind you, good sir, that businesses off world can affect my livelihood quite dramatically. Surely you concede that." That said, Shiningcoat turns and walks towards the door. The girl nods a greeting to her grandfather as she moves past him. "Concede?" Darkmuzzle chuckles, growling softly. "I have seen that they can do exactly that, and even more than just your livelihood. One wonders if sources cannot be found for various necessities here, on Demaria. I am sure that there might be suitable replacements for various delicacies." Stumppaw bobs his snout at Shiningcoat. The artist strokes the charcoal stick on the pad some more, scribbling furiously. "Surely you realize I have looked into such options," Firebrand straightens, her sand colored paw resting on the table's stone surface as if steadying her for some anticipated blow. "All I require is a bit of time while arrangements are made." His gaze narrowed at the noblewoman, Darkmuzzle growls, "As much time as you need, Lady Firebrand. I would hardly deal with amateurs in such an endeavor." One paw does twitch, flexing upon the stained pillow, claws everting to add wounds to where blood might have already been spilled. Ceasing his sketchwork, the artist lifts the charcoal stick from the page and quietly regards the image revealed there. He gnashes his fangs and his tail swishes back and forth. Dropping the stick into the leather sack, the artist swings his snout back toward the mirror. "It is complete, Lord Sandwalker." The elder Demarian's lower jaw drops open an inch or so, exposing glittering teeth, and his whiskers flare. "Complete?" Stumppaw growls in a low and dangerous tone. "In my father's age, it took much longer to capture the essence of a noble's image. Show me your concept of 'complete,' artist." Distracted by the elder nobleman's fervent disapproval of the artist's techniques, Firebrand averts her gaze to the far end of the tavern where he sits with his entourage. Darkmuzzle frowns, loosing the pillow from his sharp grasp, to follow Firebrand's line of attention towards the art criticism about to take place. A sidelong glance at Firebrand is sharp, however, and tight. The artist huffs softly, but complies, flipping the pad around to display the image's reflection above the head of the Demarian noble who inspired it. The portrait shows a one-handed Demarian with an excessively proportioned head riding the back of a bucking desert bumbler, stumped arm thrown back while the good hand clutches the reins. Dust appears to billow behind the snorting creature. With a click, Stumppaw's teeth snap together and his whiskers seem to become one with his snout. A rumbling growl begins to emerge from Stumppaw's muzzle. Sensing trouble, the artist takes a step back, then offers with the voice of authority: "It is an ancient and revered technique, taught to me by Master Huesinger. An art of distortion and exaggeration. They call it karik-athurr." Even the portrait's reflection proves too much for Firebrand, her whiskers lifting in an amused arc along her cheeks. She lifts the glass of wine to cover her sudden, unbidden grin. "Perhaps the artist sees what others do not," she offers quietly. Darkmuzzle stares, somewhat blankly at the work, furrows appearing on his brow. "Perhaps." he rumbles, and a paw is lifted to his whiskers, smoothing one side, then the other. His tail is still. "Whatever it is, I fail to see it myself." "Ancient," Stumppaw snarls. He shoves himself up with his good hand, wheeling around to glower at the artist, who quickly averts his eyes, taking a sudden interest in the pile of pillows. "Revered?" the noble inquires. He snatches the pad away from the sketch artist, who offers no resistance. Stumppaw rips the page from the pad, tosses the pad onto the pile of pillows. He offers the page to the artist and demands: "Hold your masterpiece." The artist complies, clutching the picture from the top of the page, facing with the image toward Stumppaw. The nobles bobs his snout. The claws in his remaining fingers *snikt* from their sheathes and he brings them down in a slashing arc that shreds the image in five lengthwise strips that flutter worthless to the floor. "Let me show you another ancient art of distortion and exaggeration," Stumppaw snarls, grabbing the artist by the back of the neck and shoving him bodily over the pile of pillows and toward himself - or, at least, his reflection. His twin is shattered when he strikes the mirror with his snout. He never even has time to throw his hands up to protect himself. The shards dance on the floor. The mirror-wielder doesn't even budge from her spot, stoically holding steady as the mirror is broken. The artist, bloody and dazed, collapses in a heap on the floor. Stumppaw stalks over, kneels beside the artist, and grabs the underclasser's snout with his good hand, yanking so that the artist can face three oblong fragments at the base of the mirror, like gleaming silver fangs. "*That*," the noble growls as he jerks his own snout toward the fractured reflection of the battered artist, "is art." He rises then, grumbling, and begins to walk toward the door. Darkmuzzle's laugh is full, his head tilted back to lift his snout in his mirth. "I don't know art," he hisses, "but I know what I like..." He wets his tongue with another drink, chuckling still afterwards. "Servants earning their hides this day." For the second time tonight, underclassers file from the back room resolutely with brooms and dustpails at the ready. The set to the solemn work of retrieving the fragments of glass even before the artist has found his wits. "Oh, he is good," Firebrand comments under her breath. "He is very, very good." She turns on her pillow to watch the elder Sandwalker exit. The mirror-wielder glances uncertainly at the befuddled and bleeding artist, but doesn't take long to decide. She takes the ornate frame of the broken mirror - now much lighter to bear, thanks to her master's object lesson - and follows Stumppaw's progress toward the street. Category:Logs